


Celebrity

by juniperwick



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperwick/pseuds/juniperwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Failed morning!sex and frustration. James is with Jeremy; but may possibly probably secretly like Richard too. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrity

“Oh, for heaven’s – !” A frustrated slip and Jeremy’s fist hit the mattress with a voluminous thunk. He slumped on top of James, chest heaving. James sucked in his breath and twisted his face away from Jeremy’s sweat-slick shoulder. 

This was what he couldn’t stand. The slap and slide of naked flesh on flesh, the indelible smell of sex, the times he’d glance up and see Jeremy at an angle that just made him sick and for one unbearable moment he hated him, hated him so much it paralysed him, and then he hated himself too. These were times he wished sex – love – could be as simple as playing music, as reading books.

Jeremy, lips at his ear, sighed. James shoved at his shoulder ineffectually. “I know what you’re thinking about,” Jeremy said. 

“Oh really.” Manifest disbelief.

“Don’t come all insolent with me, May.”

James tensed. “I won’t, don’t worry.” Hot painful surge of something inside. “Come, that is. I rarely do, when you’re around.” _That was a_ shit _insult. Bollocks._

“You cock.” Jeremy shifted position, all soft corners against James. He propped himself up on his elbows, so that they were nose to nose. “I know what this is about.”

“What are you babbling on about?”

“I _know_ what this is all _about_.” Jeremy’s eyes bored into James’. It was no use resisting. James tried anyway. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. But he couldn’t stop himself from hearing. “I _know_. This is about Hammond. Hammond and all his shiny new metrosexual pretty-boy A-List mates.”

“Shut up.” Through his teeth, low voiced. Jeremy ignored him.

“This is about Hammond and David Ten-Inch, and their washboard abs and tight arses and velvet smoking jackets and being perfect for one another. This is about them shagging like bunnies on Viagra every chance they get.” Jeremy lowered his head further, smushing his and James’ noses together, and hissed, “And you not getting in on the action.”

James opened his eyes and found himself staring into Jeremy’s. There was nowhere else he could look. “Look, just piss off, Clarkson,” he said, and hated it when his voice betrayed him by wobbling at the end of Jeremy’s name. _Double bollocks. Quadruple._

And yet, to James’ immeasurable surprise, Jeremy _did_ piss off. He rolled off of James to lie flat on his back beside him on the bed, before sliding off and landing on his feet. James watched him stalk away, naked, fling the door open and leave the room. A moment later, James heard him thundering down the stairs. Another few moments later, he could be heard banging cupboard doors and crockery about in James’ kitchen.

_Tits, fuck and arse._ James listened, imagining his china chipping.

He sighed, and stared at the ceiling. There was a long, spidery crack running across it. He’d meant to get around to plastering it ages ago, but somehow never had. There had always been reasons. Not that he could think of any now. What he could think of now was his own mental picture of Hammond as DIY Action Man, knelt in paint-spattered jeans and moth-eaten jumper, hair actually genuinely dishevelled for once but still looking infuriatingly perfect, guiding his daughters’ paintbrushes on the wall and grinning. And why shouldn’t he grin? For Hammond, everything was effortless.

James wondered if Richard would plaster his ceiling, if he asked him to. The answer was probably yes. But James wouldn’t ask. It would be another agonising day that would come to nothing. A painful, empty nothing. Another day to make him feel old.

James wondered if Mindy had ever let Richard bring David Tennant into their bed, all together. What was the answer to that one? It was no secret that Mindy knew. James saw something in her smile, sometimes, when the topic of their openness ever came up, or when everybody was over for dinner and – oh, what a surprise, David just happened to pop ‘round, do come in, the more the merrier – kisses on cheeks and breezy laughter and poured wine – he saw it, he was sure: a certain complacency, a certain self-assured curve about Mindy’s smile that said _‘I’m so proud of my husband and his designer boyfriend’_. James wondered if she and Richard watched Doctor Who together on Saturdays and felt warm and fuzzy inside.

Or perhaps he was just imagining things in his dotage. Well, he certainly couldn’t imagine himself in there. 

Not that he’d want to. No.

This was ridiculous. And what was more, _Jeremy_ was ridiculous. Who did he think James was? Things like this – like Hammond being unruffledly bisexual and getting it on with Britain’s sexiest Time Lord while his wife peeled potatoes for dinner – just didn’t happen in his sphere. They belonged in the world of cocaine and teeth whiteners and clubs so exclusive you needed three different membership cards, a key from the 19th Century and a biometric scan to get inside.

James’ world was constructed of things like his piano, organising his spice rack, model train exhibitions, his own clumsily dealt-with sexuality, pints of bitter, playing Scalextric on his own and the dry food Fusker had been on since the last vet visit that made the house smell funny. It was as delicate as a card castle. Richard – and his life, and his relationships – could knock it over with a breath.

He liked spending time with Richard. Being boys. And that was all. That was _all_.

He swore that was all.

The door eased open slowly, and James turned his head. He wrenched himself out of the last traces of his dreams with a deep inward breath.

Jeremy appeared, shoulder first, then foot, edging into the room sideways. When he turned, letting the door swing shut behind him – Fusker scampering in at the last moment, a black and white glimpse, and disappearing under the bed – James saw that he was holding two mugs. The slim handle of a teaspoon stuck out of one of them.

“I made you a cup of tea,” Jeremy explained, unnecessarily.

“Oh.” James propped himself up on his elbows. “Thanks.” Post-argument awkwardness poked itself between them, in the clear two feet of space Jeremy left around James as he manoeuvered tea onto nightstands and himself onto the edge of the bed. He’d found a dressing gown somewhere. James was glad.

“Listen – ” Jeremy began, facing the other way. James interrupted.

“Yeah.” He wriggled up the bed to sit against the headboard, and pulled the sheets up over him to protect his modesty. “Me too.”

Jeremy turned his head to look at James. After a moment, he grinned. “Bastard.” He reached out with one hand, found James’ wrist and squeezed.

“Yeah, well.” James freed himself from Jeremy’s grasp and retrieved his cup of tea. It still felt as if there was a bruise over his heart. He cradled the mug to himself to cover it. “Do you fancy a race with the Scalextric later on?”


End file.
